


The Bastard

by groaar



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Gen, Gore, No Plot/Plotless, Ramsay is his own warning, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-10
Updated: 2015-03-10
Packaged: 2018-03-17 07:36:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 506
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3520838
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/groaar/pseuds/groaar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is why you should never call Ramsay Snow just that; Snow.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Bastard

**Author's Note:**

> There are works tagged porn-without-plot. This is similar, only it should be violence-without-plot...

*crack*

One finger…

*crack*

Two fingers…

*crack*

Three fingers…

Bones cracking, such a pretty little sound it was. Not that there was a lack of beautiful sounds; Ramsay could think of plenty he enjoyed, but there was something almost enthralling about the dry snapping pop of a sturdy bone being cracked into two. It ran shivers down his spine; shivers of delight. 

 

A man lies shrieking on the ground, thrashing wildly beneath him, and Ramsay can feel the muscles straining against him. Helpless, trapped, panicked. He can feel the desperation soak through the man’s bloodstained, muddy clothes and he basks in it; greedily drinking every last drop of lovely despair. He’s voracious. Wanting more – always hungering for more. 

Ramsay eagerly licks his lips, the red tongue slowly travelling across the dry, chapped skin. 

Want. He wants to hurt this man. Needs to. 

He wraps his fingers around the man’s throat and presses hard. The throbbing under his slim digits is calming, pleasant even, and familiar. It’s something he can control. 

Ramsay can detect hope slowly building in the assaulted man’s eyes; hope born from the belief he’ll be granted a quick and painless death. Hope that soon will be crushed – smothered – by him. Anticipation surges through his blood and something akin to pleasure starts building in the pit of his stomach. It’s only a slow smouldering now, but Ramsay knows it will grow. It always does. 

Slowly, uncurling one finger at the time, the bastard loosens his death grip. He moves his knees to rest upon the man’s shoulders, pressing down hard, pinning him effectively to the ground. The man is whimpering, squealing like a pig, hope wiped clean from his face. It makes Ramsay smile, then laugh; a cackling laughter that echoes through the room. 

Blue eyes close instinctively as Ramsay’s fingers edge closer towards them, thumbs coming to rest softly against the thin slips of skin. Gradually Ramsay increases the pressure and the man starts squirming. He begs for Ramsay to stop, the pleas dripping from his lips like sweat does from an overworked horse, but this only eggs Ramsay on. It turns him on. 

The more force Ramsay applies to his thumbs the harder the resistance beneath them grows, but no matter how squishy and resilient the surface it will, at some point, give in. 

The man howls in pain, legs kicking wildly, mutilated fingers scratching weakly at Ramsay’s arms. The bastard can only laugh at the attempts. So pathetically hopeless. And it brings such satisfaction. A thrill that decouples when the screams grow into sobbing and the eyeballs give away, rendered to nothing but gooey mush. 

Wave after wave of blissful pleasure rushes to his brain. It’s sweet and addictive. This pleasure, Ramsay knows that others refer to it as sick, but he couldn’t care less. It’s empowering. It makes him something. He needs it. 

Ramsay tells the man to lick his fingers clean, and, gagging slightly, the man obeys. 

The bastard smiles to himself; the game was far from over yet.

**Author's Note:**

> \- Today has sucked. A horrible day all in all.  
> \- I was struck with a sudden urge to write something awfully sick and gory.  
> \- love Ramsay - not as a person, but I think he's an awesome villain. 
> 
> \--> This story was born. 
> 
> I know this fic has absolutely no plot and serves no purpose, but I have always wanted to try writing something from Ramsay's point of view. I don't know whether I actually succeeded in my interpretation of him, but this is my take on it.


End file.
